Four Years
by Thistlefang
Summary: It had been four years to the day since his world had gone to hell. Four long years. - Not a slash! reviews are always appreciated! (rated T for language) I now have a longer version of this story titled "Laugh, Kookaburra Laugh" - check it out if you wanna.


-**Authors note**-

_Hey guys, I'm back with another tf2 story! this is the first time I've ever attempted to write down an Aussie accent (it was not what I'd call easy). Anyway - I couldn't help but notice everyone always assumes that the sniper is 1. Gay or 2. lonely and single (Not that i don't enjoy other fics - there are some great ones out there). This made me wonder, what if he wasn't always 'lonely and single' the way he's often shown? Anyway - this was practice for my writing exam lol. Please tell me what you think and whether or not I should write more for the TF2 fandom - **reviews are appreciated**! Thank you! You inspire me! - Thistleclaw13_

* * *

Doves took flight, the noise of flapping wings the only audible sound for what seemed to be miles. An Aussie, the RED Sniper, was leaning over the phone, deathly quiet, as a rough elderly voice spoke to him.

Meanwhile – inside – the remainder of the RED team huddled around the window and listened, various expressions of confusion about lanky team-mate and his current conversation plastered across their faces (excluding Pyro, of course, but their body language suggested the same thing). Everyone was used to hearing heated arguments between father and son whenever sniper called home, but this conversation was different. It wasn't following the usual pattern.

The conversations would usually start peacefully, mainly because Sniper's mother usually answered the phone, and would eventually turn darker when the phone was passed on to his father. This would be followed by all out roaring from each of the two before sniper eventually slammed down the receiver and sulked off to make coffee.

Today, however, the Sniper's parents had called – the engineer picking it up and passing it over to Sniper. That, however, wasn't what had the REDs listening so intently. No, the unsettling thing was that there was no argument, no disagreement and that the Sniper himself had barely said a word.

He just stood there, leaning heavily against the wall, one hand massaging his temples, the other loosely holding the phone, occasionally letting out a pained sigh. The man looked as if he had simply given up.

Eventually, after around an hour and a half of one-sided conversation, the Australian's elderly parents said their goodbyes – ending the conversation with an audible "Don't give up, Lawrence. You know we're always here for you." At those words the line went dead and Sniper gently put the phone back on the hook, making his way over to his van, shoulders slumped and head hung low.

Inside the base Heavy was the first to speak up.

"Tiny Sniper is ok?"

The mercenaries shifted a little and glanced around at each other awkwardly, none of them willing to answer. The uncomfortable silence continued until Spy stood up and headed for the door, cloaking shortly before he reached it.

* * *

Sniper slumped back on to the tiny mattress of his camper-van's bed, eyes closed. Four years. Had it really been that long? He didn't care – he kept telling himself that – but deep down he knew it wasn't true. He cared and it was eating him alive.

He was briefly aware of a clack as the door to his van was opened and then closed again, but he didn't bother opening his eyes or showing any signs of recondition. It was only when he heard the familiar whir of a de-cloaking Spy that he sat up sharply, pulling a large knife from under his pillow as he did so. He lowered it slightly when he saw the familiar pale red suit and burgundy balaclava. Oh joy, it had to be _their_ spook, didn't it?

"So you can hear me de-cloak, but you can't even hear ze sound of ze door opening? You never fail to astound me, bushman."

"Oi'm not in the mood, Spook," the marksman sighed, slumping back down and tipping his hat over his face, attempting to broadcast a very clear 'leave me alone' message to the Frenchman – a message the Spy ignored completely.

"Very well, I just assumed zat you would want coffee before ze Medic and ze Engineer finished our remaining supplies." To mugs of the steaming liquid were produced from seemingly nowhere and the spy sat down on one of the rickety old stools, placing them on the small makeshift 'table' (which was really more of a low shelf) bolted to the wall.

The Sniper didn't respond for a few moments, but eventually decided the Spy wasn't going to leave unless he got up and at least took a few sips of the coffee. Dragging himself to his feet and flopping down on another stool, the Sniper tasted the contents of the mug before deciding it was to his liking and draining the rest in record time.

The two men sat together in the small space, neither talking, one gingerly taking sips from his drink and the other staring intently at the bottom of his empty mug. The Spy didn't attempt to make conversation, he didn't even throw one of his usual snide remarks towards the Aussie. He just sat there quietly, barely noticeable at all, waiting for what he knew would come eventually. He wasn't wrong.

"'S been four years. Oi can hardly believe it, y' know mate? Four bloody years since everythin' went t' hell."

Spy didn't ask Sniper to elaborate. He already knew most of the story, having looked through his team-mates' files several times during the course of the war between RED and BLU. He knew about the events that took place four years ago in that small Australian town, he knew what had happened to Sniper and his family.

"Oi wos married – y' know. Hard to believe, but 's true. Shirley, 'er name wos. Most beautiful sheila you'd ever seen – hair like fire, eyes green as emeralds and a temper as fierce as a rabid coyote. Oi met 'er out in the bush, or rather she met me. Oi wos stuck hangin' upside down in an acacia tree an' she cut me down. Must'a thought oi was a bleedin' idiot."

He laughed slightly, a slight smile ghosting his lips for a few milliseconds.

"We got married a year or so later, had a lovely little ankle boiter of our own too – 'is name wos Jake, after 'er father. That's when we decoided to settle down – we were both trackers y'see so it wosn't an easy decision. Bought a house an' everythin' – jus' like a normal family. And we were, for foive years we were a normal family. Then... then everything went to hell..."

The pause went on so long that for a few moments the Spy was sure the Sniper wasn't going to continue, then the bushman started speaking again, his voice much quieter than before. It made the Frenchman feel like he was intruding, like the story wasn't meant for his ears (which, he supposed, by all means it wasn't).

"Oi was out that noight. The little one's fifth birthday was comin' up in a few days and oi was tryin' to earn a little extra money, make the day special for 'im – y' know? Not that it mattered. Fuckin' wanker broke in while they wos sleepin'. He didn't steal anythin', didn't wont anythin' at all other than to kill 'em. Got Shirley first, the bastard went at 'er with a golf trophy of all things, made sure she couldn't scream or stop 'im – then 'e got to little Jack – wosn't like 'e could fight back – wot kind of sick twisted wanka kills toddlers?"

The question hung in the air. Spy tried to keep his face straight, not quite managing and suddenly grateful that Sniper was still busy glaring at the bottom of his empty mug and not looking his way. It was one thing to read the story on paper and quite another to hear it out loud, in detail. The taller man's face suddenly turned up into a twisted, hatefully cruel grin so cold it almost made the spy shiver.

"Oi searched for the bloke that done it for three months. You should'a seen 'im when oi found 'im, grovellin', beggin' for the mercy 'e never showed Shirley or Jack. Well – oi guarantee you can guess oi didn't show 'im much of it. Started with 'is fingers. Took my Kukri an' –"

The Aussie was snarling by this point, but seemed to pull himself together, stop himself from going into too much detail about one of his 'less professional' moments of pure unhindered violence.

"Well, don't know why oi'm tellin you any of this anyway, mate. 'S not like you don't know any of it already. Oi can guarantee you read the files the administrator keeps on us, Spook."

"_Oui_. I did."

"Thought so."

Once again they drifted into silence until Spy stood up, collecting both mugs and heading for the door. Just before he left the Sniper stood up, following him.

"Spoi – promise me you won't-"

"Don't worry, Lawrence, you're secret is safe with me." The Spy interrupted, "Just know zat you are not ze only one here to have lost family needlessly or tragically."

The lanky marksman nodded, murmuring a curt "_Thanks, mate_" and heading back to the small bed. The spook left and Lawrence Mundy once again found himself contemplating what could have been if he had been home that night, four years ago. The night the world went to hell.


End file.
